A Space Apart

Critical Acclaim for Meredith Sue Willis's A SPACE APART

"A Space Apart is so deftly and subtly written, I hardly noticed how involved I'd become until I'd read the last page and turned it, wanting more. The Scarlin family is going to be with me for a very long time." —Anne Tyler

Ms. Willis writes with wisdom and with warmth, weaving a web of subtle suspense and poetic perception. And when she is finished, she has left the reader contentedly fulfilled—yet longing for more. —The Philadelphia Bulletin

Willis fleshes out with warmth and tenderness the complexities of family love, which not only defines commitment but deepens the need. An important new talent. —The Kirkus Reviews

First novelist Willis shapes her story with exquisite care, detailing the lives of a West Virginia preacher's family: John Scarlin, minister and son of 'the Preacher,' a wild old born-again Baptist; John's sturdy sister Mary Katherine; his capricious wife Vera, a strong character who commands attention in one fine scene after another; and his daughters Lee and Tonie who grow up to reject and embrace the meaning of Galatia, their hometown. In a novel of character more than event, these five people reveal themselves in chapters which progress in time, alternate in point of view. Finally what is revealed is a family, inextricably bound together while struggling with each other's need to find 'a place apart.' Narratively skilled and disciplined, this is an impressive debut. —Library Journal

This is the story of a broken family trying to mend itself through three generations. It is a painful but essential process, and like all such repair jobs, it is only partly successful. Before it is over we come to know John and Vera and Mary Kay, as well as Vera's daughters, Lee and Tonie—to understand the wars they must declare and the peaces that they are able to proclaim within the state of being Scarlins. —The Philadelphia Inquirer

Willis views the Scarlin family ties and loyalties, limits and tensions, with realism, sensitivity and precision. A noteworthy first novel. —Publisher's Weekly

The narrative carries warmth and strength. The people are as real as your next door neighbors. —Houston Chronicle

For readers who have enjoyed Anne Tyler's novels or Frederick Busch's short stories, the arrival of Meredith Sue Willis will be cause to celebrate. She has written with depth and honesty about a life style available to many of us only through books. —The Los Angeles Times

A SPACE APART

by

Meredith Sue Willis

Copyright © 1979 Meredith Sue Willis

All Rights Reserved

The book was first published by Charles Scribners Sons

See more books by Meredith Sue Willis at www.meredithsuewillis.com

Smashwords Edition

FOREVERLAND PRESS

http://www.foreverlandpress.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by MSW Technical Services

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

AFTERWORD

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

Mary Katherine

The parsonage was filthy when Mary Katherine and her father moved in. The closets were piled with rusty hangers and brittle magazines and bed sheets that rent when you touched them. The place had been empty since the sudden death of the last pastor, so she wasn't expecting Better Homes and Gardens, but it did seem that Galatia First Baptist could have afforded to hire someone to do the rough work. All the sinks had elliptical orange stains from the sulfur hard water, and the living room furniture released clouds of dust when you sat down. It was an affront to turn the house over to them in this condition.

The new minister was her brother John Scarlin, not their father. John was seminary-trained, the equivalent of a master's degree, and he had been the minister of a church up in Pennsylvania for two years. Their father was a preacher too, homemade and self-ordained. In the last few years he had narrowed his doctrine to the point where no one came to his church anymore except Mary Katherine, and he was ready to excommunicate her when he got sick. She had quit work to nurse him in the old combination general store and church five miles outside of town and then John called and said he had the church at Galatia. Pack your bags, Mary Katherine, John told her. We're moving to town and we're going to be a family again.

The old Preacher used to take them into town to buy clothes or to see the doctor, and he would always point out the big yellow First Baptist Church with its bell tower and chimes and say, That is a Judas church where they claim to be Baptists, but you can smell the incense like Catholics. When she and John were old enough to be bused into town for junior high and high school, John would point at the church too and tell her, One of these days I'm going to be the preacher at that church and I'll make them get back to the Bible.

And he had done it, he was coming back and they were going to live in town on Church Street with the elm trees and above the elm trees the red and green roofs of the best homes piled up the sides of the hills and above them broad fields and a few cows, and higher still on ground so steep it had never been farmed were woods, and above the prickly rim of the hills, just sky. Not a glimpse of the tipples and strip mines and slag heaps of Black Run where they grew up. Looking at Galatia you would never know it was the coal mines feeding everyone. Mary Katherine and John were finally going to live together there in a graceful place, a house on the same lot, sharing the same semi-glazed bricks and forsythia bushes as the First Baptist Church. Except that the inside of the parsonage was filthy.

The main question in her mind as she started to clean it—with no vacuum cleaner—was whether the insult was to John, or to her, or to both of them and what they came from. It's because of who we are, she thought first, it's an insult to both of us, on her hands and knees inside the bathtub scrubbing with Ajax and SOS pads and ammonia. If we hadn't been raised in that crazy way by that crazy old man downstairs they would have had more respect. If we had grown up regular Baptists instead of Second Milers. If they hadn't known us when we were wild little country children, just barely housebroken. That was going a little too far, the Preacher did his best by them, and she felt guilty, so she ran downstairs to pull him up in his wheelchair. The second day after they moved in here he had another one of his slight strokes, and ever since he hadn't been talking, although she couldn't say if it was because he couldn't or because he didn't want to.

Maybe after all it was just that they were young. The church was certainly getting John for less than they would have had to pay an older established man. And they knew they were getting a bargain too. They had heard him preach. Mary Katherine had herself gone up with the Search Committee to hear him preach, and he hardly ever raised his voice, but not a person in that poor little church of strangers in Pennsylvania didn't lean forward in their seats to get every word. After the service a lot of girls had crowded around her when they found out she was his sister. Tell us what Reverend Scarlin used to be like, they said. Tell us what he was like when he was a little boy. She had answered them without paying much attention because it was the people from Galatia who mattered, and whether or not they were going to have eyes to see what John was worth, how fine he was.

Of course they had seen. Even Emzie Wright had seen. That's why they offered the church to him, and it was the church they were offering, the church as beautiful as ever, needing no apologies. And that left the insult directed straightaway at Mary Katherine, and she knew it wasn't from the church as a whole either, it was from Emzie Wright alone, and the knowledge made the back of her jaws tight with anger, but glad to have come to the conclusion. She could imagine with perfect clear satisfaction the nasal sound of Emzie Wright's voice saying to the rest of them on the committee, Oh leave the cleanup to Mary Katherine, she's a hand to do that kind of thing. She won't have anything else to do, she isn't working. How could I work, thought Mary Katherine, how could I work at the drugstore or anywhere else with the Preacher in the shape he's in and John needing me too? How could I work anywhere or get married either? Emzie hated her for not marrying her son Earl, but she had hated her long before that. You're one of the reasons I refused him, thought Mary Katherine. Not that I'd let you stand in my way if that was all it was. It wasn't a final refusal anyhow, she had just told Earl she wanted time to think. All right, said Earl in his solid way. And went off to Korea. Only after he was gone did she start to pay attention to the radio and the newspaper and to think that where he was going they fired real guns, not cowboy movie blanks.

Even so, thought Mary Katherine. I have my duty too. And she decided she would work all night every night till John came and the house was spic and span and he would never know about the insult, and she would never let them know in the church either, not a one of them, and she would never ask for help either.

The phone rang, and she turned down the Preacher's radio show. It's Johnny, Preacher! she said, and the Preacher closed one eye, and she said to the phone, Oh, he's okay, he could talk if he wanted to. He's just sitting here listening to Gangbusters.

She loved talking to John on the telephone. His whole voice right in her ear. He said, I hear you're polishing the parsonage room by room.

Who told you that? You just think I never do anything but clean—

No, I really did hear it. Emzie Wright told me. I don't want you overextending yourself, Mary Kay.

You talked to her? Long distance?

Yes, I had to talk to her, and the Shinns and everyone on the Committee and the Board of Deacons. I have some big news.

She had heard more bad than good big news. Still, he sounded happy, so she put on a smile to listen.

I got married, he said. I had to inform the committee and the Board of Deacons right off. I had to make sure everything was okay. I was afraid they would take back the call.

They wouldn't take back the call!

It was pretty sudden by anyone's standards. I had to do some fancy explaining.

She waited for hers, and when it didn't come, said, What about me and the Preacher. Do you want us to move out?

Mary Katherine! In his deepest voice that he usually saved for grief and mourning. Mary Katherine, what do you think? I told the committee first because I had to be sure they wouldn't withdraw the call. I'm coming the same day, as I said, nothing is different. She says she's depending on you because she can't imagine what it's like to be a preacher's wife. We're both depending on you.

Mary Katherine said, There's no stove. The old one didn't work and the new one may not be here in time.

In time for what? Things around the house made him impatient, he never wanted to be bothered.

In time to cook a decent meal for you on Friday night.

It doesn't matter! Lord Have Mercy it doesn't matter. We'll all go out to eat. Or tell Emzie and Thelma and some of the women, and they'll bring covered dishes—don't worry about it!

Emzie and Thelma, she thought, and then, Why didn't he tell me first, even if they had taken back the call, I should have known about it first. Off the phone, sitting on the steps with her forehead pressed against the bannister, she started thinking, And John, what would have happened if I'd been the one to call you up and say Oh by the way I decided to marry Earl after all and he's coming to live in the parsonage with us too.

But then the problem of the beds popped up in front of her. She had to find another bed, and she only had twenty dollars in the bank. Preacher, she said, I'm going to bring down the little bed for you in the den and take your bed upstairs because Johnny got married. What do you think about that? I'll have to buy a cot or something for me. Not that you care what you sleep in, or me either, but who am I going to get to carry the beds? Now I have to have curtains too, there's nothing to do but make curtains. What do you think of Johnny getting married, Preacher? He might have shrugged the slightest bit, but he kept his eyes closed. She could feel mean things coming up in her throat and she said, It runs in the family, doesn't it, getting married in a hurry? She headed for the kitchen before she could say anything else and tried to scrub the old wax off the linoleum. Later she gave the Preacher his bath, and after she had put him to bed she finished scrubbing and slept on the couch and when the morning light woke her through the curtainless windows went and washed down the kitchen floor again.

She had not forgiven John by the night they came, but she did manage to get the house ready. The stove had come in time after all, and she had asked the deliveryman to help her switch the beds. She had a meat loaf in the oven and scalloped potatoes, and early in the afternoon she had shaved the Preacher and dressed him up in his red flannel shirt and green tie. Her greatest triumph was that she had managed after all to make curtains. She had spent all of the money after groceries on some cotton with pink leaves and blossoms and little red strawberries, and she had run up enough gathered curtains for all the downstairs windows and the big bedroom upstairs. There had been a little piece left over too, not enough to curtain her room, but enough for an apron, and she wore that now, over her navy wool dress with the Peter Pan collar. The house still had breaths of Clorox cleaner here and there, but the cooking smells were beginning to displace them, and the curtains were doing a little dance at the drafty windows. The only way she had failed to be ready was that she still didn't know John's wife's name. She kept thinking, Well, I don't have to worry because he'll say And this is Jane, or Susan or Betty. She ran to the window every time a car passed and made sure the Preacher was sitting up straight, and once, while she was plumping his pillows, almost sooner than she expected although she knew John was always on time, she heard the car that pulled over and two slams. She had one fraction of a second of stillness before they came in, two of them, John and the one whose name she didn't know, the two of them so elegantly dressed with a tailored quality she hadn't expected: John in a topcoat and hat that hid part of his face, and his wife in glen plaid gray and green like spring rain with lots of flyaway hair and a tam.

And this is Mary Katherine, said John.

The girl came running and gave her a soapy clean kiss; she bounced off Mary Katherine at the Preacher, knelt by his wheelchair and hugged him, gave him a kiss. Apparently no one had told her that the Preacher didn't kiss, although this one didn't seem to bother him. He closed an eye. John just stood there in his topcoat smiling as the girl hugged and kissed everything in sight.

This is Dad of course, she said to the Preacher. I've been looking forward to meeting you, Dad, I've been telling my idea to John, that I intend to spend a lot of time with you making friends so Mary Katherine can go out if she wants to—

Dad? said Mary Katherine to John. You call him 'Dad' now?

High pink spots on John's cheeks, an unusual sign in the sallow-skinned Scarlins, and the more familiar vertical tension line between his eyebrows. He waved his hands, smiling under the frown. Why not? He's our father. He never denied that.

Mary Katherine said to the girl, We never did call him anything but Preacher.

The girl hopped to her feet and John slipped her coat off of her. She hardly seemed to notice. But the suit underneath was the same gray and green glen plaid as the coat; it was an ensemble. Mary Katherine had never seen anyone wearing a real ensemble before. For just a second she stepped forward and looked at Mary Katherine, trying to figure something out. Really? You always called him Preacher? Do you think I lied? thought Mary Katherine. The girl took the Preacher's bad hand and shook it in both of hers. How do you do, Preacher. Nice to meet you again.

That's his bad hand, nothing you do can get it warm. She stopped, having no idea of what she wanted to say to the girl except the one thing What is your name? and that was impossible to ask. She waited for John, but he was as still as the Preacher, a lot like the Preacher right now in fact, the inset brown eyes, and both of them looking at the girl who kept patting the Preacher's hand and looking brightly around waiting for someone to speak.

You don't know the Scarlins, thought Mary Katherine, if you think one of us is going to talk first.

Finally the girl laughed. Why would you want to change his name, John?

When is he going to say her name?

John shrugged and called her honey. It never seemed right when I thought about it, to call your father Preacher. Besides, I guess I was thinking I'm the Preacher now.

Mary Katherine couldn't stand it anymore. You're John, she said. He's the Preacher. I have to go put ketchup on the meat loaf.

From the kitchen she thought she heard them whispering under cover of the Preacher's radio program. She stretched out her arms, braced them on the stove and lowered her head, trying to get her breathing regular. Questions went flying off through her mind: How long did he know her? Where did she come from? Above all, what is her name? She heard a little tap tapping and saw the girl's spectator pumps, brown and white, open-toed, everything about her so perfectly pretty.

May I set the table? Oh, you already did it. But listen, I know this cute way to fold napkins. I'm good at things like that. Little things. I'm always fiddling with little things. Mary Katherine squeezed her eyes shut. The heels tapped closer. Listen, Mary Katherine, I'm sorry I didn't know what to call him. I shouldn't have come barging in here fooling with your napkins either. Look, I'll unfold them—I'll put everything back just the way you had it.

Mary Katherine said, John never even told me your name.

It's Vera, but I thought you knew because we were introduced once, you know.

Chagrined, Mary Katherine couldn't remember anything. Up in Pennsylvania?

Yes, I guess I must have blended in with the crowd. You were at his church and there were a lot of us girls—we all had a crush on John—I was one of the Good News Thrushes, we sang? Do you remember? We had little red weskits.

Mary Katherine remembered crowds of people, and she did notice a lot of girls going off like sparklers on all sides of her. I get stupid in crowds.

Oh me too. People don't realize because I look like I'm talking and laughing and having a good time but I'm panicky and silly.

Don't unfold the napkins. It's just that John didn't tell me. He didn't tell me anything till the last minute. She hadn't meant to say anything against John, but the girl nodded so sympathetically.

John's afraid of you, she said. "He says you're his conscience. He got me scared half to death of you too. I talked nonstop all the way down here I was so nervous. I wanted to buy you flowers and I made him drive all through three different towns looking for a florist but nobody was open.

Mary Katherine found herself talking too, and again it was what she had meant not to talk about. I cleaned all week, and when I found out about you, I made the curtains.

You made them! You have a sewing machine? Oh Mary Katherine we're going to have fun while John is out doing whatever preachers do. We'll sew things and bake cookies. How about college—have you started yet? John says there's a state college in driving distance. Why don't we go to college together and study in the evenings? I had a semester already—

I never even started, said Mary Katherine. I was working in the drugstore and then the preacher got sick.

"We might have to take turns—you'd go one day and I'd stay with the Preacher and then vice versa—I didn't